


Blue

by aceofsparrows



Series: Colors AU [1]
Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Anxiety, F/F, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Modern Era, References to Depression, Self-Harm, Songfic, These poor boys, ahhh the feeelsss, found family trope, race & jack & crutchie were foster brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 20:49:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19070413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceofsparrows/pseuds/aceofsparrows
Summary: Sometimes, the best things (and people) come to us in the worst times.A songfic inspired by "Colors" by Halsey





	Blue

**Author's Note:**

> So, I was listening to my Halsey playlist, and this little gem of an idea wouldn't leave my head. I'm so sorry in advance for what I've done to these poor boys... 
> 
> Trigger Warning: Implied/Mentioned: drug abuse, child abuse/manipulation, self harm, depression & anxiety, harassment... I think that's it? I'm sorry if I missed anything....

**_Your little brother never tells you but he loves you so_ **

  
  
“Les?”   
  
The teenager’s bedroom door is closed, just as it has been for the past half hour. But Davey tries again, one last time.   
  
“Les? Can I come in? Please, bud?” Davey rests his forehead on the cool wood until he hears the doorknob turn and he stands in time for his brother to open the door, revealing his tear stained face, puffy and drawn.   
  
And Davey, for once, says nothing, instead simply gathering the sobbing boy in his arms and holding him like it’s the end of the world.

  
  
**_You said your mother only smiled on her tv show_ **

****__  
  
“And that’s a wrap!” The stage manager says triumphantly through the headset, and the team cheers. Up on set, late-night  news magnate Joseph Pulitzer shakes hands with his latest guest, and nods politely to the evening’s musical talent, Miss Medda Larkin. He steps offstage into the shadows, and Katherine is there waiting.   
  
“Nice show, Dad,” she says hesitantly, as if she is addressing a religious or royal figure. Then again, in many’s opinion, she is. But to her he is only her father. “I was wondering if maybe you would look at this segment I’ve written for next—“   
  
“Not now, Katherine,” he says firmly, ending the discussion then and there. Whatever traces of his signature smile he may have held when he exited the set are now gone, replaced by worry lines and scowl creases.   
  
He has no laugh lines, no smiling crow’s feet.   
  
“Yes, father,” Katherine relents, bowing her head and retreating back into the shadows.   
  
A tear slides silently down her cheek, and she doesn’t even lift a hand to brush it away.

  
  
**_You're only happy when your sorry head is filled with dope_ **

  
  
“Hey kid, I ain’t tellin’ ya twice. Now you got the money or not?”   
  
The man is grey and haggard and thin as a rail, and yeah, Race could take him.   
  
But Race certainly can’t take any of his goons, not like this, so he does the only thing he can do: he grabs the drugs and runs.

  
  
**_I hope you make it to the day you're twenty-eight years old_ **

****__  
  
The thin white lines are like dominos balanced precariously on one end, marching staunchly down the length of Jack Kelly’s forearms. He wears them like a perverse badge of honour, declaring with a morbid sense of pride “look! I haven’t managed to kill myself yet”.   
  
They are the product of the bad days, the ones that don’t end in canvases of swirling nightmare colors and ripped pages torn in anger from black-cover sketchbooks.   
  
He is twenty two, and yet he has never really lived.

 

**_You're dripping like a saturated sunrise_ **

****_  
_   
They paint his room in pinks and yellows and oranges and creams, colors that keep the anger and the shadows at bay, and string up twinkle lights to illuminate the sharp corners of the small space. Les jokes haltingly that it looks like the bedroom of an eleven-year-old girl, but Davey doesn’t miss the way he sleeps easier than he has in years that first night after the redecoration.   
  
_Maybe_ , Davey thinks as he lies in his own bed down the hall, _maybe now he’ll finally stop screaming and missing the home he can’t go back to so badly._

  
  
**_You're spilling like an overflowing sink_ **

****__  
  
There’s water everywhere, and Race honestly doesn’t remember why he turned on the tap in the first place. It doesn’t really scare him, the water; mostly it just makes him grumpy about being wet and annoyed that his landlord will be on him about the damage if he doesn’t stop it soon.   
  
The mist catches a stray beam of light through the dirty window, and rainbows dance in Race’s hair as he drifts away once more, swaying to the sound of the rushing water.

  
  
**_You're ripped at every edge but you're a masterpiece_ **

****__  
  
“It’s beautiful, Jack,” Crutchie says with his rare brand of sincerity, and Jack grins lopsidedly.   
  
“Aw, c’mon Crutch, you say that about ev’rything I paint.”   
  
Crutchie gives him a hard look. “I’m serious this time, Jack. You can’t let this one get destroyed— it could go for thousands of dollars one day.”   
  
Jack just laughs. Him? Beautiful?   
  
Little does Crutchie know that such beauty comes at the price of his broken heart.

  
  
**_And now I’m tearing through the pages and the ink_ **

****_  
_   
Katherine can’t find the folder, and _goddamnit_ , her father will have her head for it.   
  
Her office is a mess— she knows this. But she swears she had that folder of articles and research and everything else all ready to go not two days ago.   
  
And now it’s gone.     
  
Well, fuck.

  
  
**_Everything is blue_ ** ****_  
_ **_His pills, his hands, his jeans_ ** **_  
_ ** ******_And now I’m covered in the colors_**

**_Pull apart at the seams_ ** **_  
_ ** **_And it's blue_ **

****__  
  
What Davey notices first about the boy who moves in below them is the fact that he is always covered in paint. The colors change daily; sometimes they are happy, and more often they are sad or angry.   
  
He doesn’t bring much to the apartment, Davey also notices. Just a mattress, a paint splattered plastic laundry basket filled with clothes and sheets, and several large easels.   
  
An odd man indeed.   
  
When Les asks that afternoon if Davy knows anything about the new mysterious stranger living directly below them, Davey lies and says he doesn’t care.

  
  
**_Everything is grey_ ** ****_  
_ **_His hair, his smoke, his dreams_ ** ****_  
_ **_And now he's so devoid of color_ ** ****_  
_ **_He don't know what it means_ ** **_  
_ ** ******_And he's blue_**

__  
  
One of the reasons Race started smoking was because of the colors. It numbed them, making the vibrant reds and oranges and greens and yellows duller, easier to manage. The smoke in his lungs pulled a welcome curtain of confusion across his brain, letting the colors for once detach themselves from their meanings and simply be.   
  
Except for blue.   
  
Blue stayed, making water and the sky and even blueberries bursts of complexity in a wonderfully simple world.   
  
Race didn’t mind the blue, not much. At least it wasn’t red.

  
  
**_You were a vision in the morning when the light came through_ **

  
  
Race doesn’t remember when he fell asleep, but he definitely remembers waking up. There’s something blocking the sun that should be in his eyes from the open window, and that’s the first thing he sees when he is yanked unceremoniously to consciousness.   
  
It looks like Spot Conlon, but it can’t be, because then Race really would have to be dreaming.   
  
And on top of that, he would never admit to dreaming about Spot Conlon. Not even in that tight, tight shirt and those well-fitting jeans.

  
  
**_I know I've only felt religion when I’ve lied with you_**

  
  
Jack isn’t quite sure how he ends up in the bed of his upstairs neighbor. All he can remember are flashes, like rapid speed photographs, of hair-hands-lips-eyes-arms-legs-chest-lips-lips-lips. And then he wakes to sunlight and the smell of pancakes in the air, in a bed far more comfortable than his own, and his only thought is “how do I paint this?”   
  
The answer is surprisingly complicated, rooted in the fact that the only color that comes to mind is white, and of course one can’t paint whiteness on a white canvas without looking like an idiot.   
  
But try as he might, that is the only thing he can think of. White. He was never much one for religion, but he assumes this is what people meant when they said they knew what heaven looked like.   
  
Because crooked-nosed, black-haired, long-limbed, thin-lipped Davey Jacobs is his angel.   
  
And all he can think to paint is white.   
  
And it scares the shit out of him.

  
  
**_You said you'll never be forgiven ‘til your boys are too_ **

****__  
  
The first time Davey asks him about the painting, Jack avoids the question by kissing him. It’s a cheap out, and Davey shouldn’t let himself get distracted so easily, but man, is Jack a good kisser.   
  
The second time he asks Jack about the painting Jack tries that tactic again, but Davey presses onward with the question. Jack has been covered in blues and reds and black for days, colours Davey knows are never good, and he needs to know why.   
  
“I went through the system,” Jack says, huffing a bit about the burden of having to explain the painting. “Me and my brothers, Charlie and Anthony. I’m the oldest, and I’d always wan’ed ta adopt ‘em, get ‘em outta the system, ya know?” Davey nods, choosing not to mention the fact that Jack’s heavy Manhattan accent is creeping into his speech the way it does when he’s emotional.   
  
“The last place we lived was with this old guy, Snyder. He was a bad guy, real mean, but also real manipulative. He made us call him ‘Dad’ when we were in public, and told all them social workers that he loved us and such.”     
  
Davey frowns, wondering where this is going, but not quite regretting asking about it in the first place.   
  
“And then, three days before I turned eighteen, he died. Just, had a heart attack and died, right there in the middle of eating dinner. Anthony and Charlie were scared out of their minds. I had ta call 911, and then our case worker came and had ta sort ev’rythin’ out. I became and adult, and Charlie and Anthony went back into the system. I tried ta adopt ‘em for years but couldn’t. The guy- Snyder- has grown kids of his own, and two of ‘em cornered me one night, tried ta beat th’ shit outta me ‘cause they said I’d killed their father.”

Davey can’t help but raise his eyebrows, and Jack gives him a look somewhere between apology and defense.

“I didn’t, obviously.”

He stops talking then, never actually explaining the painting.

Davey leaves it be.

  
  
**_And I'm still waking every morning but it's not with you_ **

 

Spot comes and goes, bringing with him food and aspirin and soap and clean clothes. He helps Race stay occupied, keep away the cravings, and later the chills and the sweat and the nightmares, and when the colors come he holds Race’s head in his lap, petting his hair and whispering about how _it’s all gonna be okay, Racer, you’re gonna be okay_.

He never stays the night however, though Race wishes desperately that he would. That’s when everything is at its worst, after all, when the shadows creep into his psyche and claw at his dreams, shredding them to pieces.

Every morning he wakes alone, feeling despair with a new and startling clarity.

********_  
_ **_You're dripping like a saturated sunrise_ ** ****_  
_ **_You're spilling like an overflowing sink_ ** ****_  
_ **_You're ripped at every edge but you're a masterpiece_ ** **_  
_ ** ******_And now I'm tearing through the pages and the ink_**

 

His name is Darcy Reid, and he’s the son of one of her father’s fellow late-night hosts. He is tall and fair-haired and well-built, strong and bookish all at once. His round, wire rimmed glasses make him look like some sort of relic of the past, which Katherine is sure is part of his appeal.

He tells her she’s pretty.

He says he admires how stubborn and intelligent she is.

He reads what she writes, even when no one else will.

They date for three weeks before they sleep together, and Katherine comes to the startling realization that she likes Darcy much better with his clothes on.

That she likes his protection and flattery for just what they are― protection and flattery― and nothing else.

She breaks up with him, and he understands.

It turns out he’s more into short, round-faced Bill Hearst from the _Late Night Journal_ ’s offices anyway.

They remain friends, and Katherine becomes a little less alone.  

****_  
_ ****_  
_ **_Everything is blue_ ** ****_  
_ **_His pills, his hands, his jeans_ ** **_  
_ ** ******_And now I'm covered in the colors_**

**_Pull apart at the seams_ ** ****_  
_ **_And it's blue_ ** ****__  
  


When Jack becomes a fixture in the Jacobs boys’ apartment, Les is surprised that he doesn’t much care. He likes Jack, with his disregard for appearances and keen artistic eye. Les is not sure who he wants to be yet; the people at school are pressuring everyone else to think about college and the future, but after his episode last fall all of the teachers treat him like he’s made of glass, ending every statement as a question and constantly asking him if he’s okay. He hates it, but he is also glad they aren’t making him think about the future. It’s refreshing to get to know someone who makes up his future one day at a time.

Davey avoids the subject of what he and Jack are, and Les, for once, doesn’t push it. He sees just fine that Davey is so much better with Jack, less anxious and world-weary, and Jack is more grounded and care-free. Les smiles when he finds them asleep on the couch one night, heads nestled together, the TV running the credits of some sappy YA movie.

Three weeks in this _whatever_ Les notices another bottle of pills next to his own and Davey’s in the medicine cabinet. The label reads “John Francis Sullivan”, and it’s full, even though the prescription date is nearly five years previous.

The little blue pills are anti-depressants, that much Les knows. He had them himself, for a brief week last fall until they gave him hives and he had to get something else.

Jack is a mystery in many ways, but this is the first mystery Les finds himself not wanting to solve.

****_  
_ **_Everything is grey_ ** ****_  
_ **_His hair, his smoke, his dreams_ ** ****_  
_ **_And now he's so devoid of color_ ** ****_  
_ **_He don't know what it means_ ** ****_  
_ **_And he's blue_ ** **__  
** ****

 

Race has been clean for a little over two months when Spot finally spends the night for the first time. It’s an accident, really, if Race is feeling technical. They are watching a movie, Race’s head in Spot’s lap like usual, the older boy running his fingers languidly through Race’s tangled dishwater-blond curls.

Race falls asleep before the end, and when he wakes up later Spot is slumped forward slightly, snoring softly. Race smiles and turns onto his side, relishing the warmth and safety that the other boy provides.

It’s the first night he sleeps through completely, and he revels in the serene darkness.

****_  
_ **_You were red, and you liked me because I was blue_ ** ****_  
_ **_But you touched me, and suddenly I was a lilac sky_ **__  
  


The new intern is the same age as Katherine, and she isn’t sure whether this fact makes her feel important or under qualified for the job she’s doing.

Her name is Sarah, and she has brown hair and blue eyes and a dry sarcasm and practicality that reminds Katherine slightly of herself. She’s interning for the lighting designer, learning how to light a show for late-night TV.

It is three weeks before Katherine actually talks to Sarah. It’s a Tuesday (one of Katherine’s least favorite days), and they both happen to need to use the copier at the same time. Later Katherine will kick herself over such a cliché.

“You’re Sarah, right?”

“Yeah.”

Katherine sticks out her hand for Sarah to shake, realizing belatedly that it’s ink-stained and must look quite dirty. Sarah shakes it anyway, smiling.

“I’m Katherine… Plumber. Nice to meet you.”

Sarah frowns. “You hesitated before you said your last name.”

Katherine laughs nervously, high and forced. “It’s my byline, the name I publish under. And the one I prefer, if I’m honest.”

Sarah nods, and the copier beeps, announcing it is finished with Katherine’s task. She makes to take it out of the tray but Sarah beats her to it, stopping to read what is written on the top page before Katherine can snatch it from her.

“‘Why we need more LGBTQ+ women in the workforce: an essay on misogyny and female romance by Katherine Plumber’... wow.”

Katherine flushes scarlet, making a grab for the thick stack of paper, which Sarah reluctantly relinquishes.

“It’s nothing, really, just a side project that I-”

“Can I ask you something random?” Sarah says quickly, cutting off Katherine’s rambling abruptly. Katherine closes her mouth dumbly, nodding. “Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

“Uh, um, yes?”

“Wonderful. Seven, Michelangelo’s on the corner of Sixth. I can’t wait to hear more about this… intriguing… essay.”

And by god, _she_ _fucking winks_.

Katherine wonders for a fleeting moment whether it’s scientifically possible to self-liquidate due to infatuation. Because if it is, she is sure she will soon be a purple puddle right in the middle of this aging office carpet.

Sarah is sassy and curvy and witty and charming and _perfect_.

****_  
_ **_Everything is blue_ ** ****_  
_ **_His pills, his hands, his jeans_ ** ****_  
_ **_And now I'm covered in the colors pull apart at the seams_ ** ****_  
_ **_And it's blue_ ** ****_  
_ **__  
** Almost a year after he stumbled into their lives, Jack helps Les paint his bedroom blue. It’s the sixteen-year-old’s new favorite color; he’s come to the realisation that it’s the one that calms him down the best, keeps everything smooth and light. Although he doesn’t say it when they pick out the color, the almost-periwinkle shade he chooses reminds him of what he thinks Davey and Jack would look like mixed together as colors. It makes him feel safe, sleeping at the crux of the two entities that love him most in the world.

They have fun painting, that’s for sure, probably wasting more time and resources than they should. But it’s spring break of Les’ Junior year, and Davey’s just gotten a raise at the library, and Jack has finally landed a job teaching art, and they’re just _so damn happy_ that for once a mess doesn’t matter. They all end up on the floor the afternoon they finish it, laughing at one of Davey’s stupid puns and covered from head to toe in periwinkle speckles. Les makes a mental note not to wash this pair of pants until after the paint dries; he likes how the dusting of purple-blue looks against the grey-black jean.

Next to him, Davey is grinning at Jack, who’s doing his best impression of the singer crooning through their bluetooth speaker, shaking his head so close to Davey’s that their noses brush briefly and obviously relishing Davey’s joy.

With a sudden surge of inspiration Les stands and darts out to the hallway (where all his stuff has lived while they were painting) to grab his old Polaroid camera. Davey and Jack are so absorbed in each other that they don’t even notice him snap a picture of them.

When it develops later, Les will scribble a simple title in sharpie on it (“ _Blue, April 2019_ ”) and pin it to the cork board above his desk. And everyday he will look at that picture and smile, reminding himself of this little patchwork family they’ve become.

_In the middle of the frame stand Davey Jacobs and Jack Kelly, in half-profile. They both are grinning, gazing at each other with an impossible amount of love in their eyes. There is a dot of periwinkle paint on the tip of Davey’s long nose, and a moment after the picture is taken Jack kisses that exact spot._

The bottle of blue pills is replaced by a much newer one, and slowly, the pills themselves begin to dwindle.

 

**_Everything is grey_ ** ****_  
_ **_His hair, his smoke, his dreams_ ** ****_  
_ **_And now he's so devoid of color_ ** ****_  
_ **_He don't know what it means_ ** **_  
_ ** ******_And he's blue_**

**__  
** The colors come back in full after a year of sobriety and Spot Conlon. Race doesn’t fight or fear them this time, trying instead to decode their secret meanings and use them to help him navigate the world.

It helps, infinitely, that Spot is there beside him every step of the way, silently squeezing his hand and fending off the demons best he can. It’s them against the world, and Race wouldn’t have it any other way.

Interestingly, the only color that doesn’t return with the sobriety is blue. It, instead, grows weaker, lingering in flashes and half-manifestations. It makes Race sad, just slightly, to know his long-time constant is no longer such. But then again, to him blue means hallucinations and loneliness and that uncontrollable free-falling feeling, so maybe he’s glad it’s faded into the background where he doesn’t have to think about it as much.

Besides, in the meantime he’s learned to love red like he never had before (which may or may not have to do with the fact that Spot wears it all the time).

Red has become new beginnings and strength and clarity. Red is independence and love and safety.

Red is the sunrise on a new chapter of his life, one that is so much more than just grey and blue.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm considering expanding this AU into a series of oneshots, mostly song-inspired. I'm certainly interested to figure out how they all ended up where they did... 
> 
> Let me know if y'all would be interested in that!
> 
> Have a great day! (and happy June/Pride month!!)  
> -Sparrow
> 
> PS: Kudos are amazing for showing support, and comments are even better! Plz drop by and let me know what you think of a story!


End file.
